postcards

written on leaves 
& napkins & sometimes only breath,
i am given elsewhere missives
from planets long ago, now,
salted & turned inside out.
they are simple prayer pillows.
"hello, this is your lover."
"have you ever seen
the waterfalls
of planet 9?" there is
not much room on a postcard.
only enough to squeeze 
one glossy yearning. one
moment of awe. most i recieve
are from long long ago.
before the earth was dirt,
back when every want pulsed red
& the oceans were still
drawing themselves like a bath.
you have to understand, 
i lie often in my real life.
can i blame that on being
a storyteller? when i speak
often i mean, "wouldn't it be great
if this is how it was?"
yarn spills from my lips
so i collect them in skeems. mostly,
i hope postcard writers
are lying to me. i hope
these are all just lonely inventions
& not true signals 
from an other side.
thresholds waiting to sigh.
i collect them beneath 
my tongue. one after another 
after another. sometimes 
their voices reach my skull
where they flit like parakeets.
"i wish you were here
in a space ship made of gold."
"we should go here someday."